THE LONELY LIGHTHOUSE

For the ones who feel me cry without ever seeing the tear.

Frank’s crooning in the background, pouring velvet over the bones of my silence. And me? I’m here. Half-dressed in memory, half-lit by the glow of everyone else’s progress. Watching my friends bloom into futures that don’t have a seat for me anymore.

They’re building things. Posting milestones. Falling in love. Or at least fucking something that looks like it.

And I’m... not.
I’m in the in-between. The breath between breakdowns. The hallway between chapters. That lonely, holy place where everything echoes louder than it lands.

It feels like I’m fading.
But maybe I’m just shedding—skin, stories, people who never saw me clearly anyway. Maybe it’s not that they’re outgrowing me... maybe I’m outgrowing the version of myself who needed them to stay.

Still—God, it’s lonely.
You ever cry in private and wonder if someone, somewhere, feels it? Like your grief got loose and slipped under their skin, stirred their chest at a red light, made them sigh for no reason while scrolling past strangers?

Maybe a future lover wipes a tear they can’t explain.
Maybe an old friend thinks of me and doesn’t know why.

The soul doesn’t need Wi-Fi.
It just needs a signal.

And this—this ache in my ribs, this Sinatra-backed spiral—is my signal. My flare in the fog.
Not a cry for help.
A declaration.

I’m not disappearing.
I’m just becoming too real to be seen by people who only look.

So let the record show—
I loved them.
I let them go.
And I didn’t flinch when the silence came to sit beside me.

Because even in the quiet,
I know I’m not alone.
Not really.

I’m the lighthouse.
They’ll feel me again.

They always do.

If your breath just changed—
You’re not alone.
The rest of this? It’s already waiting.